Julia Child married the love of her life, Paul, when she was 36.
The result was a marriage I have long admired—from reading Julia’s autobiography to watching (for the hundredth time, to be sure) Nora Ephron’s last film, “Julie and Julia,” in which Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci portray the soul mates. Paul describes falling in love with Julia: “We were having dinner as friends. And it turned out to be Julia.”
At one point Julia describes a butter mixture to her sister. Paul chimes in, explaining, "it's tangy." Julia looks at him, then at her sister. Her face, her whole being says, "do you see? He gets me. He understands."
At one point Julia describes a butter mixture to her sister. Paul chimes in, explaining, "it's tangy." Julia looks at him, then at her sister. Her face, her whole being says, "do you see? He gets me. He understands."
Julia transformed herself from a non-cook into the legend. The fascination for me, however, is how Paul’s adoration of and interest in his wife propelled her passion. They understood each other. From their understanding sprang the most authentic love and a culinary empire. In the final scene of the movie, Julia’s finished masterpiece of a cookbook comes in the mail. She opens the package to discover the fruits of her gifted labor and hoots with amazement and delight. Paul laughs from his belly at her utter joy. I cry every time I watch that scene. All I see is love.
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